


The Soldier and the Hunter

by CanaryBird23



Category: Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Marvel - Freeform, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, mcu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanaryBird23/pseuds/CanaryBird23
Summary: While on a mission trip to Romania, Shannon is saved by none other than the Winter Soldier. Now she must either go into hiding with him or expose her rescuer to the world. As she gets to know him, Shannon realizes he is not the man the rest of the world believes him to be. But Bucky's world is more dangerous than she could have imagined...





	1. Chapter 1

There is a man with the most startling eyes I’ve ever seen who comes into the soup kitchen at least once a week. Sometimes they appear blue, sometimes they appear green, and other times they appear gray. The color isn’t what is so startling about his eyes though; it’s their depth. I have never seen such vastness in such a small space before. I found myself drawn to him, though I knew I would be leaving to go home to America in a few weeks. My time doing missionary work in Romania wouldn’t last forever. Still, I couldn’t help staring at him whenever he came in.   
He kept to himself and never spoke. He may have been mute; it wouldn’t be uncommon for a homeless guy. Sometimes I got the feeling he wasn’t all there. Not crazy. It all came down to his eyes. There was a world behind them that I wanted to know. He never made eye contact with anyone, always staring at the soup, or the tray, or the table without seeing them. I had the hunch he was a soldier. His physicality and mannerisms supported my theory, such as the way he always sat with his back to the wall, watching exits. I remember reading the term “thousand-yard stare,” somewhere to describe soldiers. An unfocused gaze.  
Of course, I was far too shy to initiate contact; physically, he was imposing. He was at least six feet tall and looked very fit. That was another thing that was strange: here was someone who should have stuck out but didn’t. The other volunteers didn’t give him a second thought. I asked a few questions about him but my only responses were shrugs and “just another homeless guy.”   
I would smile at him as I served him. The attention made him skittish; he was a trapped animal. Which begged the question: who trapped him? Sometimes I would notice him looking at me. But his eyes would flit away before we made contact. I’m sure my unwanted interest in him put him on edge. He stopped coming by soon after that. I was afraid I put him off. No one knew why he stopped, not even the other patrons. I asked around to no avail. 

I leave the kitchen alone, deep in thought. Four men come into the alley. I try to ignore them. They approach me, speaking Romanian. Unable to run, I begin screaming.  
“Help! Somebody help please!”   
One of the men punches me and says something in rough Romanian. I fall. He yanks me up me by my hair, causing me to cry out again. I see the glint of sliver: a knife. I’m totally surrounded and unarmed. I decide I’m not going down without a fight. What they have planned for me would be death, or worse. I launch myself at one of the men and begin to scratch his face. I feel hot liquid on my fingers. Blood. He screams and throws me into a wall. I feel his hands tighten around my neck. I gasp and claw his hands. It’s no use. I can’t even cry out. The last thing I’m going to see before I die is an angry blood covered face. They surround me, jeering and laughing. The lack of oxygen is becoming painful. Suddenly the grip slackens. I fall to the ground, coughing. Someone is attacking my assailants. I try to figure out what’s going on but everything is fuzzy. I begin crawling away from the fight while everyone is distracted. There’s pain in my stomach. I touch it. My hand is red and wet. Blood. Huh. I don’t remember being stabbed. Everything is growing dark. I give up fighting it. The darkness is comforting.   
I wake up. Every part of my body is in pain. I look around and realize I have no idea where I am. It’s not a hospital room, but a small studio apartment. My heart begins racing. The men took me after all. I try to stand up but am far too woozy. I lay back down and clutch my side. My wounds have been dressed. I appear to be alone. There’s no phone so I can’t call for help. My best bet is try to find a helpful neighbor. I’m ignoring my elementary Romanian skills for the moment. Since I can’t stand, I crawl to the door. I’m almost there when I feel a ripping. I feel my side and my hand comes up bloody. I reopened my wounds. The door opens and a man walks in but everything is going dark again.  
“Nooo,” I moan softly. I can barely speak let alone scream for help. The feet come closer as I black out.

Sunshine wakes me up. This registers momentarily before my mind attempts to process my bigger problems. I have no idea where I am or who brought me here. Rustling behind me causes my breathing to hitch. I try to keep my breathing steady so it doesn’t give me away. I peek around quietly with my eyes almost totally shut. A man is busying himself in the kitchen area. His back is to me so I risk opening my eyes a bit wider. He’s about six feet tall with shoulder length dark brown hair. Under all the layers of clothes, he looks muscular. Wait. I know those features. The man from the soup kitchen. He must have been my rescuer. I feel a rush of gratitude. Sure, being in a tiny apartment with a mute and bizarre man isn’t ideal, but it’s better than yesterday’s situation. Somehow, I know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.   
He turns around and sees me watching him. We both drop our gaze. He approaches me slowly, as if he doesn’t want to frighten me. Suddenly, I’m aware of the fact I’m not wearing a shirt; my entire torso is encased in bandages. I pull the sleeping bag up past my chest, thanking God I have a bra on.  
“I’m sorry about your shirt. It was torn and covered in blood, I had to throw it out. And I had to keep redressing your wounds, so it was easier,” he says, noticing my response. His voice is quiet and hoarse. I’m surprised he speaks at all, let alone English. “I’ll give you a shirt soon.”  
“So you can speak,” I whisper. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds weak and feeble and takes far too much effort to say the simplest things.  
He almost smiles. He sits on the couch next to my mattress and hands me a tin mug. Inside, there’s oatmeal.   
“Thank you,” I whisper.  
He nods. Looking at him now, there’s something familiar about him that I can’t place.   
“Who were they?” I ask.  
“Traffickers most likely. A young woman travelling alone in a foreign country makes for an easy target. Of course, those bastards could have just been prowling for their own benefit,” he says.  
My throat is sore. Enough talking for now. I begin working on the oatmeal, which incredibly difficult to swallow. The man notices and adds more water. It’s watered down, which is gross, but I eat without complaint. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep. People are probably looking for me. I sigh and try not to think about it too much for now. The need for food has been fulfilled. Next need: the bathroom. The apartment is a small studio with a bathroom so that one’s self-explanatory.   
The cracked bathroom mirror is where I get my first look at myself since the attack. I gasp; it’s not a pretty sight. The area around my left eye is bruised, and there are marks on my neck. My hands are covered in dried blood, as is my face and hair.  
The apartment is Spartan, with only the bare necessities included and no personal belongings. Occupational hazard of being recently homeless. It occurs to me I have no idea what his name is. The man who saved me, let me into his home, and is taking care of me.   
“What’s your name?” I whisper.   
He tenses, but it’s almost imperceptible.   
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, looking away.  
“It does though, you saved my life.”  
“You can’t shower yet; you’ll need to let your stomach heal. You can sponge bath though, if it’ll make you feel better. There’s a new toothbrush on the sink for you.”  
“Thank you. But I really think I should go to the hospital. People are probably worried.”  
“No, please don’t do that,” he says, looking almost panicked.  
His response terrifies me; I’m alone with a man a barely know who doesn’t want official involvement. I’m a 15-hour flight from home and am in no state to be able to defend myself. And yet, despite all of this, I can’t help but trust him. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have saved me from those men. Or he could have let me bleed out in the alleyway. No, this man doesn’t want to hurt me.  
“I can’t get involved with the police. I’m a fugitive.” He looks down as he says this, ashamed.  
“Who are you?” I whisper.  
“My name is Bucky Barnes,” he looks up and meets my eyes this time, those piercing eyes. Bucky Barnes, I know that name. Then it clicks. James Buchanan Barnes. “I’m the Winter Soldier.”


	2. Chapter 2

My rescuer is the Winter Soldier. An assassin who is responsible for over two dozen kills and numerous terrorist attacks over 50 years. Who had been confirmed alive when Black Widow released S.H.E.I.L.D. files to the public and missing since the fall of S.H.E.I.L.D and HYDRA. Who is wanted by over a dozen countries.  
Everything makes sense now, his desperate attempt to go unnoticed, his first aid knowledge, why he always sits with his back to a wall and watches exits, and why his arms and hands are always covered. He is far more dangerous than I could have imagined. And yet, I feel safe. I can’t even begin to justify that logic with myself.   
On a trip to Washington D.C. a few years ago, my family visited the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. I remember reading about Bucky, and how he had been Captain America’s best friend. The film they showed in tribute to the pair showed a very different Bucky Barnes than the man standing before me. He had a confidence about him, an easy going smile. He was quick to laugh. That Bucky is long gone. This man is but a shell of his former self. I can’t imagine the horrors he’s endured.  
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I don’t hurt anyone anymore,” he says quietly.  
“I’m not,” I whisper and give him a reassuring smile. There it is again, that ghost of a smile. “If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to save me.”   
He makes no comment.  
I go into the bathroom again, this time to attempt to clean myself up. I feel better after I brush my teeth and get the blood off my skin, but there’s not much I can do about my hair; it’s dried in now and I can’t wash it or attempt to brush out the bloody matts. Even though I’ve done so little, I’m exhausted. Getting the crap beaten out of you has a way of doing that. I decide to lay back down.  
Once I go back in the main room, I realize I’ve been sleeping in his bed. I feel guilty. To make it worse, he has no sheets, just a now blood stained sleeping bag.   
“I took your bed,” I say. “I can’t take your bed anymore.”  
“Like hell you can’t. You needed treatment and you still need sleep,” he says. “Take it.”  
“But where have you been sleeping?”  
“On the couch. I don’t sleep much,” he says, dropping his eyes again.   
His kindness touches me and I’m in no position to argue.   
“Thank you, Bucky,” I whisper  
He gives a start.  
“What’s wrong? Should I not call you that?” I ask.  
“No, it’s fine. I’m just not used to being called Bucky.”  
“Well, you don’t look like a James,” I say and he almost smiles again. I want to see him really smile. Even in the grainy black and white footage of it I remember, I could tell it was beautiful.  
I sit down on the low mattress; the movement causes me to wince. My stomach is killing me.   
“You don’t have pain meds, do you?” I ask.  
“Just over the counter stuff. It’s better than nothing.” Bucky says. He hands me two pills and a glass of water, which I accept. I chug the water. I’m thirstier than I realized.  
“Thank you,” I say.  
He nods. Bucky rummages around for a bit, then pulls out an old t shirt. He gives it to me and turns around. I’m grateful for his chivalry, though it’s moot by this point.  
“Thank you again. For everything.”  
“Get some rest, Shannon.”  
“How do you know my name?” I ask.  
“I heard it at the soup kitchen. And you seemed to take interest in me, so I was wary,” he replies.  
Fair enough, I had. And obviously the other volunteers there knew me. I lay inside the sleeping bag and let sleep take me. 

When I awake, everything is dark. I hear slow breathing close to me. For a moment, I panic. Then everything comes back. I look over at Bucky. I’ve always heard people tend to look more peaceful in their sleep, but even now he looks worried. His forehead is creased and a low moan escapes his lips. A nightmare. I wonder if I should wake him up. What good would it do though, really? He’s probably reliving his past awake or asleep. It’s sad to watch. I remember news stories after the fall of S.H.E.I.L.D., condemning the Winter Soldier’s actions while under HYDRA’s control. But there was one statement released by Black Widow comparing his service under HYDRA to her own in the KGB. She stated he was a brainwashed POW. For 70 years, he endured horrors, and now he has to relive them for the rest of his life.   
I watch him for a while. He is running from the authorities, running from his past, running from himself. I can’t imagine how alone he is in this world; everyone he knew is dead except Steve Rogers. It makes me so sad. I wish I could help him like he’s helping me. He begins to stir more and I don’t want him to wake up and find me staring at him, so I roll over and go back to sleep. I don’t awake for the rest of the night.  
When I awake in the morning, Bucky isn’t on the couch. I hear water running and assume he’s in the shower. It’s cold. I wish I had something heavier than a thin cotton t shirt and ripped jeans. I burrow into the sleeping bag. The clock on the stove reads 7:28 AM. I think I’ve been with Bucky for three days now, but I can’t be sure. My stomach feels better at least.   
The bathroom door opens. Huh. I didn’t hear the water stop. Bucky steps out, towel wrapped around his waist. I can’t help but stare; his chest and arms are exposed. It’s the first time I’ve seen his bionic arm. We both drop our gaze.  
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d still be asleep,” he says. He speaks so quietly; it’s like he’s afraid he’s going to frighten me.  
“It’s fine,” I mutter, staring at the edge of the sleeping bag. He collects some clothes and heads quickly back into the bathroom to dress. Seeing his arm was a bit of a shock. I’d heard about it, seen blurry photos, but this was different. The shoulder around his bionic arm is heavily scarred. I also wasn’t prepared to see him shirtless at all. He’s muscled, which showed even through his clothes. I just never thought I would see them uncovered. I haven’t seen a shirtless man in a long time, though I’m sure it’s been longer since a woman saw him shirtless.  
When he emerges fully dressed, neither one of us speak of the encounter.  
“Coffee?” he asks. “I have sugar and milk.”  
“No, thank you. Do you have a sweatshirt I could borrow though? I’m cold,” I say, climbing out of the sleeping bag.   
“Yeah. And maybe sweatpants too,” he replies, eyeing my torn and bloody jeans.   
“Thank you.”  
“They won’t fit. I’m not used to house guests.”  
“That’s fine. I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve caused,” I whisper. My throat is still sore.  
“You haven’t,” he says, handing me new clothes. “I didn’t change your jeans cause they were salvageable, and I didn’t want you to think anything happened when you came to.”  
“Thank you.”  
He nods and pours himself some coffee. I enter the bathroom and change as carefully as possible, so as not to aggravate my injuries. The bruises on my face and neck are beginning to fade, but it will be awhile before they disappear completely. There’s no point in looking at my stomach. That will take weeks to heal. I just hope it doesn’t become infected. With fresh clothes and a semi clean appearance, I begin to feel normal. Bucky’s right; the clothes are huge on me. I roll the pants up several times and they still drag. That’s what happens when there’s seven inches difference between the heights of the wearers.   
I step back out into the main room and realize I’m hungry. The only thing I’ve eaten in the past two days is watered down oatmeal. Bucky is sitting at a small table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I take a seat across from him  
“You’ll need to clean to the wounds today.”  
“I thought you said I couldn’t.”  
“Not yesterday. The stitches were too new and needed 24 hours to set. Peel off the bandages, wash it gently with soap and water. You’ll need to clean it twice a day to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”  
“I’ve been here three days,” I say.  
“Yeah, but your little escape attempt yesterday rendered my work the day of your attack useless,” he replies. This brings a half smile to his lips. It’s not a full smile, but hey, I’ll take it.   
“Whoops,” I laugh. That hurts. I wince. His smile is replaced by concern.   
“More meds, then food, then cleaning up.”  
“You’re the boss,” I whisper. My throat is still killing me. I take two pills and down a glass of water. This time my meal is tomato soup and bread. The soup is much easier to eat than the oatmeal, though the bread is a little challenging. Letting it soak in the soup for a while helps. It’s not a substantial meal, but better than nothing.   
Next up: making sure I don’t die of an infection. I go into the bathroom and peel off the bandages. There are four stitched up wounds on my stomach. I’m lucky it didn’t puncture a major artery, my liver, or large intestine. Maybe the lacerations were too shallow to affect anything more than muscle and fat tissue. It’s still incredibly painful though. I gently wash around each wound with warm soapy water and redress them. So far, they appear to be healing well. I leave the bathroom after I’ve cleaned up the mess I made.  
“Here,” Bucky says, handing me a warm wet washcloth. “It’ll help your eye.”  
“Thank you,” I reply, pressing it to my eye. “Why are you helping me?”  
“Cause you need it.”   
“But why not just drop me off at a hospital?”  
“It would’ve raised questions,” he replies. But he won’t meet my eye, which leads me to believe there’s more to it. I decide to drop it for now. “I have to go. Don’t leave the apartment. Drink water. Don’t exert yourself. There’s some food around.”  
“Where are you going?” I hope he can’t hear the panic in my whisper. I haven’t been alone since the attack.   
“Work. I’ll be back in a few hours.”   
“Okay,” I whisper. The irony of this situation makes me want to laugh. I feel safer in the company of an ex assassin than alone.   
“Don’t worry. Those men won’t find you here. I didn’t kill them, but they were unconscious when I took you. I’m sure they’re in the hospital.” So he did hear it. Oh well. It didn’t occur to me they would be at hospital. Now, I’m grateful I’m here. “Especially the guy you tore up,” he half smiles. I smile in return, attempting to hide how pleased I am. What a sight I must be, smiling with one eye hidden under a wash cloth and my neck covered in bruises. He leaves quickly and tells me to lock the door.   
Worry mars my smile. If they’re in the hospital, it will be obvious they’d been assaulted. There’ll be investigators looking into it, though I’m sure the men would rather handle it themselves once they’re discharged. They’ll come looking for me, as will authorities on the hunt for answers. I could come forward now. I’m sure I would be cleared; it was self-defense, pure and simple. But doing so would jeopardize Bucky. I can’t do that. Which means I can’t leave him. As I come to this conclusion, I realize I don’t want to leave him.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s quiet in the apartment without Bucky. Well, it was quiet with him but two people can only keep so much distance in such a small space. It also doesn’t help I’ve spent the better part of two days sleeping. There’s not much to do; there’s no TV, the newspaper is in Romanian, and I have none of my own belongings. I miss having my own clothes. And books. Sick of sleeping, I wander around the apartment. Unoccupied, my mind wanders. I’m in deep shit now, but there’s no going back. Even if I went to the police, there’s no hiding the fact I was saved, treated, and missing for three days. And if anyone pieced it together, they would try to use me to get Bucky. That’s not going to happen.   
My options are limited. I don’t know exactly what the procedure is when an American goes missing abroad but I’m sure the embassy is involved. Slow down. I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve decided all of this without talking to Bucky once. He probably doesn’t even want me around longer than I have to be. Plus, a “kidnapped” American girl isn’t exactly low profile. I hate no win scenarios.   
The apartment is sparse; a makeshift shelf of cinder blocks and wooden boards holds the only personal belongings in the apartment. Some clothes and a half dozen notebooks rest on them. I want to write, but looking at the notebooks would be a serious invasion of privacy. I survey the rest of the apartment. The couch is so tiny I don’t know how Bucky can fit on it. I vow to switch tonight, chivalry be damned.   
I decide to straighten up a bit. The apartment’s not too messy, but it gives me something to do and it’s the least I can do to show some gratitude. I wash and dry all the dishes and wipe down the stove and counter. I don’t have any cleaning supplies, so I can’t get too fancy. An old rag and dish soap does the trick just fine. May as well do the table too, but I save the newspaper. I smooth out the sleeping bag and fluff up the pillows on the bed and couch. Well that took all of fifteen minutes.   
With the quiet, I can hear life in the neighboring apartments. Talking in Romanian, the humming of TV’s, the shutting of doors, the scuffing of shoes. It’s weird to feel surrounded and alone at the same time. Actually, that’s not an unusual feeling for me. The unusual part is for the first time, the feeling is justified.   
I move on to the bathroom, trying to ignore my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a bloody matted mane, but I can’t wash it and attempting to brush it out would be a nightmare. Instead, I decide to cut it. There’s no saving it and I’ll need to alter my appearance at some point anyway. I rummage around the kitchen looking for sheers and head back into the bathroom. My hair is so matted; it’s several inches shorter than its actual length. I begin snipping at the edges. It was getting too long anyway. With many of the knots cut out, my hair becomes much more manageable. I brush it out and examine my handiwork. It’s uneven as hell but just brushes my shoulders. The back is shorter due to the amount of bloody mats I had back there. Huh. Bucky’s hair might be longer than mine now. Once I’m done, I wipe down the bathroom. The place looks a little better at least. I’ll have to clean my wounds again at some point today. What a thrilling day. I wish I could leave the apartment; I hate feeling cooped up.   
I peek out the window. Behind the curtains, newspapers are taped to the panes; I can’t see anything. More importantly, no one can see in. I’m struck with the vision of a sniper looking in from a nearby building and shiver. It saddens me that Bucky has to live like a hunted animal. There’s another door in the apartment by the kitchen area. Sunlight peers through the news-papered window, so I know it leads outside. I open it and step into the fresh air and sunlight. A little balcony. Several stories below, people carry out their business on a street. All of the surrounding buildings seem dilapidated. The area seems unfamiliar to me, but I have a limited view. And it’s not like I had seen much of Bucharest before. We’re clearly away from the touristy sections. It’s fascinating though. I’ve always loved people watching. No matter where you go in the world, people will be people.   
People watching is my only entertainment. I spend most of the day looking at the world below me. Bucky’s been gone for a few hours, so I’m guessing he’ll be back soon. I decide to try and make some food as a thank you. Cooking was never my strong suit, so I’ll see how this turns out. Cold cuts, fruits, and vegetables in the fridge; bread, canned goods, and other non-perishables in the cabinets. I can work with that. Grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches with soup. I’m a real class act. Well, points for trying, right? I’m going to go out on a limb and saying Bucky likes everything in his fridge, which makes the lettuce and tomatoes fair game. A semi healthy, balanced meal.   
Even though I’ve never been much of a cook, it feels good to be doing something after almost three days of loafing around. I heat up the soup first as it can sit for a while without burning. I begin singing softly to myself to break the silence.  
“All because of you   
I haven't slept in so long   
When I do, I dream   
Of drowning in the ocean   
Longing for the shore   
Where I can lay my head down   
I'll follow your voice   
All you have to do   
Is shout it out.”  
Tearing lettuce and slicing tomatoes to Rise Against is a blast. I turn to check on the soup and almost cry out. Bucky’s back. I didn’t even hear him come in. Jesus, he’s quiet. He wasn’t the world’s most feared assassin for nothing.   
“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”  
“It’s fine, I just thought I would hear the door or something,” I say turning back to my work. He heard me singing, I’m sure of it. I never sing in front of anyone. “I wanted to make you dinner to say thank you.”  
“You don’t have to.”  
“I know. But I wanted to. Plus, I already started, so unless you want to waste all this food and insult the back breaking labor I’ve gone through to heat up canned soup and make two sandwiches, I suggest you eat,” I tease.   
He smiles. “Well when you put it like that.” I grill the sandwiches as he sets the table and we eat our first meal together. “It’s very good.”  
“It was nothing.”  
“I haven’t had a meal cooked for me in a long time.” I hadn’t thought of that. My little gesture touched him more than I knew.  
“Really. It was nice to be helpful. I’ve been doing for nothing for so long.”  
“You were stabbed repeatedly.”  
“Yeah, but still.” He shakes his head and finishes his soup.  
“It’s creamy. I’ve never had it like this.”  
“Yeah my mom always added milk to our tomato soup to stretch it instead of water.”  
“Interesting,” he says, clearing the table. “Have you cleaned up your wounds again today?”  
“Not yet. I’ll do it after I clean up.”   
“I’ll clean up. Take care of your wounds.”  
“No, I can do it,” I protest  
“Look, I already started,” he says as he begins washing the dinnerware.  
“You stole my line,” I mumble, shuffling towards the bathroom. He chuckles softly. I inspect and clean the wounds. So far, so good. Of course, it’s only been a few days. At least I haven’t reopened them since the first night.   
“Can I go onto the balcony?” I ask. He nods. I step into the cool evening air. It’s dark now; I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Even though I can’t leave the apartment, just being able to breathe fresh air is a comfort. I realize how tired I am; today was the longest day I’ve had in a while. That reminds me: I need to change our sleeping arrangements. I don’t hear Bucky join me, but am unsurprised when he does.   
“You cut your hair.”  
“Yeah. At this point, it was all I could do. Better than leaving it how it was. Also, I’m taking the couch tonight,” I say.  
“No, you’re not.”  
“Look, I’m feeling better now and it’ll be easier for me to fit on the couch. I’ve hogged your bed long enough as is.”   
“Argue all you want, I’m not budging.”  
“God, you’re stubborn.”  
“That makes two of us,” he walks back inside smiling.   
I set myself up on the sofa anyway. I’m exhausted, so I’m calling it quits before he is. He stops when he sees me. I stick my tongue out and burrow further into the sofa. He shakes his head.  
“Fine. You win.”  
“Damn right,” I say closing my eyes. Exhausted, I fall asleep instantly.  
I wake up on the bed. Damn it. I should have known he’d switch me back. I’m surprised I slept through it to be honest; I’m usually a light sleeper. Bucky’s still asleep on the couch. He looks more peaceful this time. No nightmares. He begins stirring. The first thing he sees is me fake glaring at him.  
“I win,” he smiles. I stick my tongue out.   
“Cheater.”  
“Don’t be a sore loser.”   
“I’m not. You cheated.”  
“The ends justify the means,” Bucky laughs and gets up. It’s good to hear him laugh. I sigh. “Go clean up.”  
“Sure thing, Doc.” In the bathroom, I can’t stop smiling. I have to be careful; if I keep carrying on like this, I’ll end up falling for him.  
We sit down and have breakfast together. Oatmeal again. I really need to bring up our situation. We can’t stay like this forever. Ugh, this is so uncomfortable. How do you even bring open this conversation? Yeah I know you’re a fugitive on the run from over a dozen countries, but do you mind if I go on the run with you? There’s something I’d never thought I’d say. The only thing I think of as this runs through my head is Stockholm Syndrome. That’s how everyone else will explain it. He didn’t kidnap me though, and he’s certainly not holding me against my will. If I wanted to go, I have no doubt he’d let me.   
I don’t think he wants me to go though. It’s probably just my imagination. But he’s been alone for so long. I imagine it’s nice having someone around. Maybe it helps him feel semi normal again. Human again, not just a weapon or a criminal. He’s changed just in the few days I’ve been here. He talks more. He smiles. He even laughed twice. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I stay longer.  
“Bucky?” I ask  
“Yes?”  
“So, I’ve been thinking about this, and I don’t see how I can go back without exposing you.”  
“I know. I’ve been thinking about it too.”  
“What if I don’t?” I drop my gaze.  
“Don’t what?” I can feel him looking at me, but still I refuse to meet his eyes. “Shannon. Don’t what?”  
“Don’t leave,” I reply, playing with my oatmeal. “What if I stay with you?”   
“No.” The immediacy of his response disappoints me. “It’s too dangerous. I will never be safe. And if you stay with me, you won’t be safe either. We’ll be on the run, always trying to go unnoticed. That’s no way to live.”  
“But if I go back, someone will figure out where I’ve been. Even if I had a good cover story, four other men saw you. I’ve been missing for days and have obviously had medical treatment. No one will believe that I don’t know anything about where I was or who I was with. I’ll be interrogated. Or worse depending on which agency looking for you finds me first. They’ll use me to find you. I can’t let that happen, Bucky. I’m not letting them hurt you because of me.” I look up and meet his eyes this time. The look of surprise on his face would have been comical under different circumstances. He has no idea how stubborn this 5’5” Irish girl can be. Yet. “It’s far too late go back to my old life now.”  
“You’re right. It would put us both in more danger. But living like a fugitive?” he asks.  
“Either way, I’m putting you in danger. I’ll only slow you down if I stay with you. But on my own I’m an easy target.”  
“Stop thinking about me. What about you? You’d be giving up your whole life to be on the run with a killer.”  
“First of all, you’re not a killer. That blood is on HYDRA’s hands, not yours. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t be giving up that much. I’ve always been an outsider. I never even fit in with my family,” I avoid his gaze again. God, that was embarrassing. What the hell made me share that delightful tidbit? “I think that’s our best option,” I say, eager to change the subject.   
“If you’re sure,” he says.  
“I am.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .

A sense of easiness has come over both of us since our conversation the other day. We decided the best course of action. All that’s left to do now is follow through. I know it’s the harder part, but I can’t help but feel happy. We establish a routine over the next few days. We usually eat breakfast together before he leaves. I clean and attempt to cook while Bucky works. I also people watch from the balcony. I can’t exert myself too much and my face and neck are still bruised, so leaving the apartment is a bad idea. It’s hard to believe I’ve been here almost a week; the days kind of blend together.  
I do wish I had my own clothes though. Bucky is so generous but all of his clothes are about four times too big. That’s one luxury I won’t get. By now, I’m sure my backpack from the hostel has been taken by the police. Oh well. It’s not like anyone other than Bucky sees me anyway.  
What I wish for even more than my own clothes is to be able to read Bucky. He likes me well enough, I’m sure. But he’s so guarded, which is totally understandable. Hey, I’m guarded too and I haven’t been through half the shit he has. I think part of him feels guilty about me. I can never go back to my old life and we both know it. But he saved me from dying or worse, which he tends to forget. I’m ignoring the fact that if I was caught as an associate of the Winter Soldier, I’d be tortured for sure. Gotta think positive, right?  
More so than gratitude for saving me, I feel drawn to him. I felt it at the soup kitchen and our connection has only strengthened. He’s like a puzzle I can’t figure out, but want to so badly. I see parts of myself in him to be honest: the fear, the nightmares, the self-loathing. Mine is just less extreme. But I see a human under all that. Someone capable of smiling and laughing. Of happiness. He’s been treated like a machine for so long, he forgot he isn’t one. I want to help him, if I can. Turns out I’m literally willing to die trying.

Dinner tonight is tuna salad sandwiches (It’s almost always some kind of sandwich, like I said, not much experience in the cooking department). He’s always grateful though, I think more for the company than the actual food. We don’t talk much; I’m afraid of him closing up. But I’m so curious.  
When they found Captain America in the North Pole, then shortly afterward the battle of New York occurred, there was a resurgence in his popularity. Dozens of biographies came out, and of course, what book on the life of Steve Rogers would be complete without talking about his best friend? I’ll admit, I read more than a few of the biographies. I couldn’t help it. The battle of New York happened when I was 14, so I developed a crush on the wholesome Steve Rogers. He and Ben Burnley were my high school loves.  
“Everything seems to be healing nicely,” he remarks.   
“I’ve been taking care of it,” I nod. “Not much else to do all day.” I try to keep my voice light, but I’m sure he hears the falter.  
“Well, you can leave the apartment soon, your bruises are fading. We should change your appearance though. Dye your hair, maybe,” he says.  
“And get clothes that don’t look like a giant’s,” I add.  
And he laughs. I’m ridiculously proud of myself whenever I can coax a laugh out of him. It’s so rare.  
“Yeah that would help with the whole blending in thing,” he says, smiling. “Let’s check your bandages after dinner.”  
“Can I shower soon?”  
“You’re supposed to keep them dry and I don’t have a way to do that. So, more sponge baths for you.”  
“Great,” I sigh. I hate the way it feels.  
“I just can’t risk you getting an infection. I don’t have anything to treat infections and my first aid knowledge is limited strictly to wound care,” he says.  
“No I get it. I’d rather this than an infection,” I assure him.   
We cram into the tiny bathroom together and unravel the bandages. I know he’s staring and my stomach for purely medical reasons, but it still makes me uncomfortable to be scrutinized like that. The lacerations are definitely shrinking. No signs of infection either. I’m a good patient.   
I wish I could think of something to say to him, but I’m drawing blanks. I still feel uncomfortable, even as I pull my shirt back down. I know I need to get over it, he saw me unconscious in a bra before this. Or maybe that just makes it worse. I don’t even know.   
“Thank you. For everything,” I say, walking back into the main room.  
“You’re welcome. And thank you.”  
“For what?” I ask.  
“For staying,” he shrugs. “It’s nice to not be alone.”  
“I know the feeling,” I avoid his gaze and head out onto the balcony. He follows me out, which surprises me. I thought he’d give me some distance.  
“So what was your life like?” he asks. “Before all this.”  
“Normal I guess. Lived in a crappy town that I couldn’t wait to get out of. Went to college. I loved it for a while, but things changed. Did missionary trips to get out of there too, which is how I ended up in Romania,” I trail off. I know it’s super vague but I really don’t want to talk about this with Bucky. He thinks I’m pathetic enough is as. He just disarms me in a way where I open up to him without meaning to. So I need to be more guarded.  
I can feel him watching me, but I stare resolutely into the evening air. The balcony is my favorite place to pass time.   
“What were you studying?”  
“Occupational therapy. I was a junior.” The was hits me hard. The finality of it. Spring break would have ended by now. Of course, the college would have been informed, my friends… I do miss them. But I made my decision.  
“Never heard of it.”  
“Not many people have,” I say, smiling faintly. It’s surprisingly painful to talk about my old life. “It actually started after World War I to help reintegrate soldiers into civilian life. From there it spread and now you can be an OT and work in almost any field; in schools, hospitals, nursing homes, the government, even own your own clinic.”  
“Interesting.”  
“Yeah,” I reply. Such a stupid reply, but I can’t think of anything else to say. Why am I so choked up about this? My amazing life plan after graduation was to get a job anywhere and fill a townhouse with dogs.   
“I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about this,” he says.  
“It’s fine.” We sit in silence for a while. He doesn’t press me for more information and I do the same. I’m dying to ask him so many things, but undoubtedly they’re all painful to talk about.

I sprint away from my attackers, but I can hear them catching up, laughing. There’s no air left in my lungs to scream. I’m yanked back my hair. There’s hot breath on my neck and a hand over my mouth. I try to bite down but can’t.  
“You’re mine now.”

I sit bolt upright in bed. It’s been so long since I’ve had nightmares. Surprising really, considering recent events. I feel trapped; trapped in the sleeping bag, trapped inside the apartment. My breathing spikes. Even in the darkness, I hear Bucky stirring. He’s a restless enough sleeper as is. I don’t want to wake him, so I head out onto the balcony. Fresh air helps calm me. The apartment makes me feel trapped, but I relax after I shut the door. I enjoy the relative quiet, something I can never experience during Bucharest’s busy days. Focusing on controlling my breathing and trying to stop myself from clawing up my forearms, I attempt to bring myself under control.   
“Can’t sleep?”  
I jump. I wasn’t expecting him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
“It’s just you’re so quiet. I never hear you coming.”  
“What’s wrong?”  
“Just a nightmare.”  
“Ah,” he nods. “I get them too.”  
“I figured. You look anxious in your sleep. And you toss around.” He just looks at me. “I don’t sleep well and wake up a lot, so I noticed it a few times,” I say, blushing. I can never say the right thing around him.   
“Yeah. I don’t sleep much,” he says turning out to look at the city scape.  
“Me neither,” I say with a sad smile. “I used to take walks late at night when I couldn’t sleep. Can’t really do that now though.”  
“No I suppose you can’t.” It’s too dark for me to read his face.  
“We should go back in,” I say and we both stand. I try to get him to switch sleeping arrangements with me again, to no avail.  
“You know, when I woke up and you weren’t here, I was worried something happened to you. Goodnight, Shannon.”  
“Goodnight, Bucky,” I reply. I’m stunned by his admittance. I’m not surprised that he cares, that much is evident. No, what surprises me is that he admitted it. An unexpected feeling rises in my chest: hope. I fall asleep, free of nightmares.

Bucky is gone before I wake up. I’m grateful for the extra time in solitude to think, to sort through the events that transpired last night. We care about each other, that much is evident. But how deep does it go? Truthfully, I can’t answer. I’ve always had a thing for guys with dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark past, which is why I’ve been hurt so many times.   
I’m not sure how I feel about Bucky, but I doubt he feels anything towards me other than as a companion. Before the war he was attractive and charismatic, able to get any girl he wanted. He wouldn’t have bothered with me then. And now, he’s far too afraid to let anyone in, let his guard down for even a minute, knowing it could be a fatal mistake. There’s no room for romance. Not to mention I swore to myself I would never fall in love again.  
“Hey,” he comes in later today with a smile. My heart skips a beat. “Got something for you.”  
“What?” He pulls something from behind his back. My backpack! He tosses it to me. “How did you get it?” I ask.  
“I’m a ghost. Trained to remain undetected by the world’s most dangerous killers. I can handle typical cops.”  
“Thank you so much, Bucky!” Without thinking, I hug him. I feel him tense immediately and release him. “Sorry,” I say.   
“It’s fine, really. I’m glad you’re happy.”  
I nod, a smile creeping back onto my face. I rifle through the backpack; clothes that fit, books, notebooks, and my crappy old iPod. Music. How I’ve missed it.   
“Thank you,” I say again. Somehow it doesn’t feel like enough. He put himself at risk to get me a few comforts. Really, he’s been risking what little security he has for me since the day of the attack. I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I’m a liability.  
“You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t want you risking yourself like that for me,” I say.  
“Shannon, really it’s fine. There was no risk.”  
“Bucky, there’s always risk. You said it yourself, we’re fugitives. This was totally unnecessary.”  
“I thought you’d be happy.”  
“I am, and I’m grateful. Really,” I said answering his look of skepticism. “I just couldn’t live with myself if I cost you your freedom. Even my being here compromises that.”  
“It was my choice. I wanted to do it,” he said. This time, he initiates the hug and I don’t let go. I don’t ever want to let him go.


	5. Chapter 5

I’ve had more to do since Bucky rescued my belongings. I spend most days reading tattered copies of Harry Potter and listening to music on the balcony. As much as I hated the unnecessary risk attached to obtaining these items, I can’t deny I’m happy to have them back. I feel a bit more like myself now.   
Bucky and I are past the disagreement we had over it. He’s safe so I can’t stay upset with him, especially since it was to help me. He’s so generous and caring, but he doesn’t see that part of himself. In his mind, he’s still a weapon, a killer, dangerous. He saved me; now it’s my turn to save him.

“So I was thinking,” I start at dinner that night.  
“You do that a lot,” he teases. I ignore him and continue.  
“Since my face is almost healed, it might not be a bad idea for me to learn more Romanian. And some basic self-defense skills too.” Bucky nods, considering.  
“It’s a good idea. I can teach you Romanian and even some other languages. We’re gonna wait on the fighting skills though,” he says.  
“Deal. I just don’t want to stick out any more than I already do when I have to go out.”  
“You’re right. Once you know more Romanian and your face is healed, you can go out. We just can’t risk the extra attention.”  
“Got it. Also, I’m sleeping on the couch from now on.”  
“Nope. You already got your one win.”  
“Well, I guess I’ll just try again tomorrow,” I say failing to hide my smile as I eat the spaghetti I made. He notices.  
Maybe I’m wrong but I feel like our dynamic is changing. It doesn’t feel quite so platonic anymore. He’s beginning to open up to me now, and last night when he pulled me into that hug… I catch him looking at me occasionally. And while that in itself is not unusual (He used to watch me in the soup kitchen), he doesn’t look wary anymore. He looks disbelieving, and maybe even happy.

Stubborn ass, he’s too big for the couch. I know he’s being chivalrous but this ridiculous. He’s in half fetal position so he’s not longer than the couch. But crouched in on himself like that, he’s wider, causing his knees to hang off at an odd angle. World’s most feared assassin, everyone: exhibit A. The innocence of it makes me smile. I almost reach out and tuck back the hair obscuring his face. But Bucky is such a light sleeper, and startling an ex assassin awake isn’t a great idea.   
Bucky doesn’t have work today, so my first lesson in Romanian begins. I already know basic introductions, questions, and some numbers. We decide to focus on practical terms, such as foods for shopping, and money. It’s imperative to try to hide my American accent as much as possible. Bucky also thinks it’s a good idea to be able to recognize tactical terms, such as “mission, target, and engage” in case I should see anyone suspicious on my own, which I agree with. I’m fairly good at imitating accents, which is a relief, but I still must always be on alert outside these walls. One slip up could cost us both our lives.   
Speaking of ways to communicate, I’m starting to think it might be a good idea if Bucky and I have a secret form of communication, in case we become separated or compromised. I know it’s worst case scenario, but in the words of the Boy Scouts: always be prepared. A contingency plan is never a bad idea. Being the huge geek I was, I learned several fantasy languages. The only problem with those is because they have such a different writing style, it would be nearly impossible to transmit a message in Elvish or Runic online. A book cipher could work though. Hmmm, I’ll come back to that idea.  
“So, if I’m training you now maybe we should take time to learn memory and perception.”  
“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m lost.   
“Being to perceive details in outside and be aware of danger. Who’s wearing what, where people are positioned, license plate numbers. Stuff like that.”  
“Ah, I see. That’s a good idea. Also, it might not be a bad idea for us to have a way of communicating should we become separated.”  
He gives a start, but Bucky’s practical. He knows it’s a good idea. We can’t assume everything will go right for us.   
“Have something in mind?”  
“Yeah, a book cipher,” I say. He looks confused so I clarify. “It’s a series of numbers that correspond to a specific letter of a certain page in a specific book. Unless one knows what the book already is, it’s difficult to crack. Not to mention, numbers and periods can be published anywhere.”   
“That could work. It’s simple. Consistently being able to find the same edition of a book might be difficult though, especially if we have to flee the country.”  
“Good point. We can work out the specifics later.” 

The Romanian lessons go fairly well, considering I’m a beginner. We begin preparing dinner together, a first. Bucky’s not much better than I am, but we have a good time making fun of ourselves. Eventually, we make some pasta with grilled chicken and grape tomatoes. It’s surprisingly good. We do have an abundance of fresh produce; there’s a market around the corner. It balances out the rest of the cheap processed crap we normally eat. Afterwards, we clean up and go to out to the balcony. It’s a habit now  
“You know what I hate about cities?” I ask craning over the overhang to peer at the night sky.  
“What?” His voice is tentative.  
“You can never see the stars.” He pauses.  
“Come on,” he says, getting up.  
“Where are we going?”  
“Surprise,” he says without looking back. I follow him out the apartment door into the hallway. This is the first time I’ve left the apartment. Bucky leads me up a few flights of stairs and through a doorway. The roof. “You can’t see many stars, but at least you don’t have to peer around the upper levels of the building.” I smile. It’s wonderful.  
“Come lay on your back with me,” I say. He sits a respectable distance away and leans back. I wish he was closer. “The Hunter is out tonight.”  
“What?”  
“Orion the Hunter. He’s the only constellation I can ever find,” I say pointing.  
“I don’t see it.”  
“There. That’s his belt and hilt. There’s his bow.”  
“Oh. I can kinda see it.”  
I laugh at his skepticism. “The Greeks took quite a few liberties when naming the constellations.”  
“That I do see,” he laughs.   
Today was a good day; it felt normal. Making dinner, watching the stars, talking, all things regular people do. Sometimes I feel like we’re in our own little world, which isn’t far from the truth. But our world is dangerous.  
“I’m sad there was no moon tonight,” I say as we head back down.  
“Next time,” he promises.  
“I’ll hold you to that,” I tease. He chuckles and shakes his head. He’s laughed a few times today alone. I smile at these changes as we head back to the apartment and go to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I’ve been here almost two weeks now. It feels like so much longer and shorter at the same time. My whole life has transformed. And yet, I wouldn’t change my decision for the world. For the first time I feel like I truly belong and have a purpose. It’s surreal.  
My face and neck are healed almost healed, and my stab wounds are well on their way to becoming some badass scars. A little concealer and foundation are all I need there. Soon I’ll be able to shower! Thank God, I’m so sick of sponge bathing.  
I go about business as usual, flitting about the apartment, filling the meaningless hours that separate me from Bucky’s return. Listening to music fills the void; I missed music so much. Even though I’m not tired, sheer boredom wins over, so I curl up on the couch and fall asleep, turning Breaking Benjamin down to the lowest possible volume.  
Some hours later, I wake up to find Bucky preparing dinner.  
“What time is it?”  
“About 7:30.”  
“I can’t believe I slept so much,” I say, getting off the couch and joining him in preparing dinner.  
“I can. You were restless last night. So I figured I should let you take a night off and cook dinner.”  
“Well, thank you.” I’m grateful he doesn’t ask why I chose the couch over the bed because, to be honest, I have no excuse. The couch smells like him, and I found it comforting. But I’ll be damned if I tell him that. 

We use the left-over chicken from the previous night and make salads. It’s getting warmer every day, so we decide to eat on the balcony tonight. A warm breeze stirs our hair; it feels like summer already. Our plates rest in our laps because there’s no table outside.  
“So how was your day?” I ask after a few bites.  
“It was okay.”  
“I never asked you. What do you do?”  
“I work in a factory. Just the yard. Loading and unloading, stuff like that.”  
“Can I ask how you’re working while on the run?”  
“The bosses want strong men cheap. If you do good work, they don’t care if you’re legal or not. Regulations are pretty lax here which is why I chose Bucharest.”  
“Is that harder to do in the States?” I ask avoiding eye contact. I try not to bring up any subjects he might find difficult, but curiosity gets the better of me.  
“Not really, but after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. I knew people would come looking for me.”  
He doesn’t elaborate but I know by “people” he means “Captain America.” We lapse into an awkward silence. After the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain America and Falcon were seen across the world when not on official Avenger missions. They never said why, but there were rumors they were looking for the Winter Soldier. I know Bucky knows this too, but never brings it up. He’s ashamed of himself, of what they made him do.  
“Well, I’m glad I found you,” I say in an attempt to lighten the mood.  
“I believe I found you,” he laughs. I turn away so he doesn’t see my smile. “But I’m glad too,” he adds softly. I turn back to him, and he holds my gaze for a few moments before his eyes flicker away again. “We should clean up,” He says, rising. I follow him back inside. 

I climb into bed some time later, but Bucky decides to stay up reading. He sits at the kitchen table reading the newspaper by dim light so as not to disturb me. The rustling of the pages is comforting. Part of me wants to watch him, but the couch blocks my view. Just as I’m about to drift off, the scraping of a chair brings me back. I hear him get up, then nothing. What’s he doing? After a few moments, I hear the shifting of items on the shelves. He must be pulling out the notebooks. I roll onto my other side so I can see.  
“What are the notebooks for?”  
He almost drops them in surprise. I wish I could’ve taken a picture of his face. Finally, I startled him, rather than the other way around. When he doesn’t respond, I assume he’s going to ignore me.  
My memories,” he says with his back to me. “What I can remember at least.”  
“Remember as Bucky? Or as … the Winter Soldier?”  
“Both. Some I don’t want to forget. Others I can’t.”  
His words cause me physical pain. I climb out of the sleeping bag and pull him into a hug. He’s still clutching the notebooks to his chest so he can’t hold me. He leans into me though, so I take that as a good sign. God, I can feel him trembling. I stroke his hair with one hand while the other is wrapped around his back. He buries his face in my neck which makes it suddenly much more difficult to concentrate.  
“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I whisper. It isn’t okay, but what else can I say? You’re safe? They can’t get you now? All that psychobabble is useless. We aren’t safe, even now dozens of agencies are looking for him. I do have him though. And I’m not going to leave him.

I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember staying up and talking at the kitchen table for hours. I remember holding his hand. Or was that a dream? Wishful thinking combined with an overactive imagination. All I can say for sure is I wake up the next morning to an empty apartment. Before I leave the bed, I take some time to collect my thoughts and scold myself. What the hell am I doing? I can’t fall for him and he can’t fall for me (even as I think that ridiculously implausible scenario I feel hope in my stomach, which causes another bout of self-beratement). We need to survive. Everything else is secondary. And yet, I catch myself thinking about the way his breath felt on my neck well into the afternoon. 

Maybe Bucky comes back earlier than usual, or I start dinner late, but he comes in to me just starting it.  
“Hey,” he says with a slight smile. Maybe we are falling for each other.  
“Hey back,” I say. “I was making pasta but I can make something else if you like.”  
“No, that’s fine,’ he says, shaking his head. “I’ll help.” I bow my head to hide my smile. We work in unison, my music playing in the background. “You’re music is … Weird,’ he says after a while.  
“You don’t like it?” I say, a little disappointed.  
“It’s not that. It’s just songs I used to listen to had less … Screaming. But listening to the lyrics, I get why you like them. I do too.” I smile.  
“Most people think my music is depressing. But I find it comforting. It’s nice to know you’re not alone in your feelings.” Bucky nods.  
“I get it.”  
We sit out on the balcony again, enjoying the warmth.  
“Sooo, when can we start combat training?” I ask.  
“Depends,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “After dinner, let’s see how you’re healing.”  
We clean up dinner and squeeze into the bathroom. I lift my shirt, exposing my abdomen and I look down to hide my reddening face.  
“Looks good,” he says, carefully removing the stitches. “Let’s give it two more days. Good news is you can start showering then too.”  
“Yay,” I say softly, pulling my shirt back down.  
“Can I ask you something?” Bucky asks.  
“Okay,” I say shyly.  
“What does your tattoo say? I didn’t recognize the language.”  
“Oh,” I blush. I guess it was stupid to think he hadn’t seen those when he was stitching me up. “Um, well, it’s elvish. From a fantasy novel. It says ‘you can only come to morning through darkness.’”  
“Oh. That’s a powerful quote.”  
“Yeah. I didn’t write it, Tolkien did. It’s in his language technically. He invented it,” I force myself to stop blathering.  
“Tolkien?” he asks. “As in J.R.R. Tolkien, author of The Hobbit?”  
“That’s the one.”  
“I love that book!” he gives me a rare smile. “I know it’s meant for children but it’s a fantastic story.”  
“I’m glad I’m not the only geek in this apartment,” I laugh. “Tolkien’s probably more famous for the sequels, The Lord of the Rings.”  
“There’s more?” he asks.  
“Yes. I mean technically they follow Bilbo’s nephew, but they still go together I’m pretty sure. He intended them to be children’s books as well, but they ended up having some darker themes. And I guess there are few languages you don’t recognize,” I say, smiling.  
“And the other tattoo? The follow the white rabbit Neo?”  
“That’s from a different movie, called The Matrix,” I laugh.  
“Ah I thought it might be Alice in Wonderland.”  
“You read that too?”  
“No, but my sister did.” I start. That’s the first time he’s mentioned a sister.  
“Your sister?” I ask, fearing he’ll clam up.  
“Yeah, I have--had a younger sister. Her name was Rebecca,” he says. He loses focus, as if lost in memories. “She’s probably dead now.”  
“Maybe, maybe not. Some people live well past 100 now,” I say hopefully  
“I’m over 100, Shannon,” he laughs.  
“True,” I laugh too. What we have, it feels so natural. Like we’ve known each other for years as opposed to weeks. “So,” I say once I’ve calmed down, “what was Rebecca like?”  
“She was sweet. I looked after her. She had a bit of a temper though,” he says, smiling at a memory. “Steve was quite protective of her too.” I can’t believe how much he’s opening up to me. I reach out for his hand, which he takes gratefully. It must be so hard remembering his life like this.  
We sit in silence, holding hands on the balcony as the night embraces us.


	7. Chapter 7

“Today,” Bucky says, “we begin combat training.” I jokingly gulp. “I’m going to go moderately easy on you, cause you’re still healing,” he says with a chuckle.  
“Like I couldn’t take you,” I tease.  
All three pieces of furniture have been pushed out of the way, except the mattress.   
“We’ll start with the basics. The elbow is the strongest point in your body, use it. Protect your face by keeping your fists in front of them when not throwing punches,” he says, demonstrating. “Practice throwing your elbow out, and then up as if to hit a face.”  
I comply, trying a few of each blow.   
“Good. Now mind your stance. Spread your legs a bit to give yourself a solid base.” Fists up, legs apart, I feel like I pose a threat. Not a helpless little girl anymore. Bucky nods in approval, circling me. I try not to feel self-conscious. “Now, when you punch, never extend your arm all the way.”   
“Got it,” I say trying not to feel dumb as I punch the air.  
“How’s your stomach?”   
“It’s fine.” Mostly healed, I can feel the scars through my shirt. Bucky’s stitches weren’t the neatest, but I’m grateful they got the job done. “What else?”  
“Your kneecap is also a strong point, just be careful to not lose your balance. Never underestimate the power of a knee to the groin.”   
I practice a few sets of each blow.  
“That’s enough for today I think,” he says  
“I said I’m fine,” I say, a little disappointed.  
“I know. But let’s not push it for day one.”  
“Okay…”  
We push the furniture back to its original position.   
“It’s still early, can we please go to the market?” I ask. Bucky just gives me a look. “Please? It’s been almost three weeks now and I haven’t left the apartment once. Plus it gives me a practical way to work on my Romanian,” I plead. He smiles, exasperated.   
“Let’s go.”

It’s busy; people are enjoying the weather. Around us, buyers and sellers haggle over prices, carrying on about their lives. I breathe in the fresh air. Salty, with an earthy tang. You can smell the fish most strongly, but underneath are the scents of other salted meats and fresh produce. Luckily we’re not in close proximity to the soup kitchen, so I have minimal risk of being recognized, especially with a foot of my hair gone. It’s nice to be out of the apartment. Crowds used to make me so anxious. But with Bucky, I feel safe.   
“What kind of food do you want?” he asks. I pause, still taking everything in  
“Let’s get some fruit.”   
We head over to the fruit stand. I look over the berries while Bucky bags some plums. I try to strike up a casual conversation in Romanian with the vendor, a kind faced elderly man. Bucky continues examining the fruit, but I know he’s listening.   
Next we buy fresh vegetables, then some fish. Laden with bags, we begin to head home. Home. What a bizarre thing to call the bare apartment. And yet it fits. It is our sanctuary. It’s as much mine as it is Bucky’s now.   
We’re almost back to the apartment when the men descend upon us. It’s the men from the soup kitchen. They brought some friends. Three in front, three behind. I clutch Bucky’s arm. They say something I can’t understand but I feel Bucky tense. We drop the bags. Bucky punches one of the men; I throw my elbow into the face of another. I hear a crunch; I broke his nose. One of the men has scars all over his face. His face is contorted with rage. He pulls out a knife and smiles at me.  
“Răzbunare,” he says, approaching me. Payback, revenge.  
Bucky throws one of the other men into him. I knee the next man in the groin, doubling him over. The last two run at us. Bucky lunges in front of me, arms spread.   
“Noo!” He throws one into the wall and punches the other one. He grabs the man who threatened me and punches him over and over again, beating him into unconsciousness. His scarred face is now bloody and swollen beyond recognition.  
“Bucky, stop!” I scream. And just like that, he does. He looks like what he has just done has dawned on him and he’s horrified.  
“I’m sorry… I,” he says, looking around at the men. They’re all unconscious, but none are dead. “I just was scared of losing you.” He looks up at me as he says this, as if he’s really looking at me for the first time.   
“It’s okay,” I say placing my hand on his shoulder. “We should get out of here.”  
We grab our bags and nearly run back to the apartment.   
“Will they ever stop?” I ask. I sit on the couch and bury my face in my hands.   
“After today, I really don’t think they’ll try coming after us again. They’d be stupid to try.” The last line sounds more like a threat, a growl. He sits beside me and I lean into him without thinking. He tenses, then wraps an arm around me. “I’m not going to let them hurt you, Shannon.” 

We stay like that for several hours, huddled as one. The rest of the day seems to pass in some kind of haze. This is the life I’ve chosen. I knew all along there would be risks. But all it takes is one look at Bucky washing up from dinner to know I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I lie in bed, unable to fall asleep. Though today’s events have left me exhausted, I am too anxious to sleep. Despite Bucky’s best efforts to quell my fears, I’m not convinced they’ll leave us alone. I hear Bucky shift beside me and wonder if he’s awake as well.  
“Bucky?” I whisper  
“Yeah?”  
“How do you know they’ll leave us alone?”  
“Men like that are just cowards. They have nothing but a chip on their shoulder and a few other thugs to back them up. Today they came at us with what they could, and lost. They fight people who can’t fight back to make them feel powerful. And we didn’t give them that satisfaction.”  
I say nothing, his word have comforted me a little. In the dark, I feel his fingers brush mine then intertwine.  
“Don’t worry Shannon. I’ll protect you. I’ll protect you from the whole damned world. Try to sleep now.”  
“Okay. Goodnight, Bucky.”  
“Goodnight.”  
We fall asleep, hands still clasped together.


End file.
